Smut time! Merry Christmas everyone!
April 2006
Clint hated Budapest.
Well, no, that wasn't fair.
It was a beautiful city after all, and the first few days of the op had been rather nice.
He was on the ground for once, pretending to be Natasha's (Rachel's) husband.
They had married after a whirlwind romance, which cut a little close after his experience with Bobbi, but it allowed him to hold her hand, and pull her close, and whisper observations in her ear under the pretence of kissing her neck.
When she went up on tiptoe to return the favour, she would run her hands up his chest, sending shivers down his spine.
She could switch off, something he was envious of. Whatever giggles or shivers he drew out of Rachel were not affecting Natasha at all.
Whereas Clint was just as affected by Natasha as Thomas was by Rachel.
Still, he was a master of compartmentalising by now - and even if he wasn't, he was long practiced at ignoring his attraction to Natasha.
So the first three days had been fine.
On the fourth day, everything went to hell.
Maybe the info was bad, maybe their cover wasn't convincing enough, maybe someone recognised one of them, Clint didn't know, but one minute he was watching Natasha laugh at a truly awful joke from their mark, and the next minute there was a hail of gunfire and they were fighting their way out of a convention centre.
And he didn't have his bow.
But by now, they were a fine-tuned team, so he focused on what was in front of him, trusting that Natasha had his back, just as he had hers.
By the time they got to the street, the mark and a good number of his security personnel were dead on the ground, and they retreated to the nearest safe-house.
It happened to be a penthouse apartment overlooking the river, and was one of Natasha's boltholes, rather than one connected to SHIELD.
Clint called it in to Coulson, while Natasha checked the apartment.
Once she was certain that her security held and that they hadn't been followed, she allowed herself to relax and returned to where Clint was standing in the living room, gazing out at the city through the huge windows.
When he had rejected her a second time - even though she knew damn well that he was attracted to her (he was certainly very good at hiding it, but not good enough) - she had gone to Peggy Carter for advice about what 'the right reason' could possibly be.
Could it really be as simple as being attracted to him?
Natasha was very good at pretending to be attracted to men. In her experience, seduction was thirty percent making them want her, and seventy percent making them believe that she wanted them.
Men could be so egotistical sometimes that a beautiful woman wanting them did half the work for her.
But she'd never actually been attracted to anyone before.
Oh, she could acknowledge that a man (or a woman) was attractive, the same way she could look at a painting and see that it was beautiful.
But that did not have the effect on her that she faked on jobs, or the effect she saw in men (and women) when she knew they were attracted to her.
Peggy had patted her arm and told her that it was alright, that some people just didn't feel sexual attraction and that was okay.
It hadn't felt okay to her.
Like it was one more thing the Red Room had taken away from her.
So the next time she saw Clint, she had made herself look at him.
Really look at him, as a man, not as her partner, or her friend.
Sometimes she wished she hadn't, because ever since then she had been very, very aware that Clint Barton was an exceptional specimen of a man.
Thankfully, she was very good at compartmentalising, so she was able to ignore her growing attraction to her partner in the field.
How would she have explained it otherwise?
"Sorry about the target getting away, but Agent Barton had just stretched and I could see every single muscle in his back flexing through that stupidly tight shirt."
Somehow, she figured Coulson wouldn't accept that as a reasonable excuse.
The last few days had been trickier, having him right there beside her constantly, especially just before everything had fallen to pieces, because he'd been wearing a tux for the occasion.
It must have been tailored to him.
Nothing off-the-rack would fit that well, not with his shoulders.
He was still wearing it, but he had undone the tie - and for some reason, that was even more attractive.
"I appreciate the sight-lines," Clint said as she approached, "but is the large window a good idea right now?"
"It's tinted," Natasha said. "We can see out; no one else can see in."
Clint nodded. "That makes more sense." He sighed. "I need to get out of this thing; be back in a second."
"Need a hand?" Natasha asked.
Clint chuckled. "You're hilarious."
Natasha sighed, turning to watch him disappear into one of the bedrooms, her eyes lingering on his ass.
From her years of running solo, she had safe-houses across the globe. She had never intentionally done anything about it, but somehow all of her safe-houses had acquired his gear as well, so when he returned, he was wearing his own clothes.
Most of his clothes left his arms bare (she had no idea if it was to torment her, or because he knew they were one of his best features, or just because it made drawing a bow easier), and these were no exception, and she allowed her gaze to travel over the cords of muscles in his upper arms, down his forearms, to his hands, to those dextrous fingers.
It didn't help with the attraction, especially when he came to stand beside her and she could smell the slight scent of her soap from his shower.
"This is ridiculous," Natasha said bluntly.
"What is?" Clint asked, sounding somewhat startled.
It took quite a lot to actually surprise him, so she mentally gave herself a point despite her frustration.
She was still in the dress she had worn to the gala, and she reached behind her, yanking on the zip with extreme prejudice. The dress fell to pool around her ankles, leaving her in icy-blue satin lingerie.
It was a little closer to the Widow than she would have liked, but she had been expecting to need to let her out to play, had the op gone according to plan - that couldn't be helped.
"Nat …" Clint began.
"I want you," Natasha said bluntly. "I hadn't considered that before, so maybe you were right when you said I wasn't doing it for the right reason. But I opened that box. I can't close it again; believe me I've tried. So if that's not the right reason, I'm really going to need you to tell me what it is, because this is driving me crazy."
As she talked, his posture seemed to relax and his gaze finally left her face to sweep over her body, his eyes darkening.
When he met her eyes again, his pupils were blown so much that she could hardly see the colour of his irises.
"Thank God," he said finally.
And then his lips were on hers, hard and demanding, like he was trying to steal the very breath from her lungs.
Natasha had obviously been kissed before, had never paid much attention to it, but kissing Clint was another experience altogether. It was like being caught up in a tropical hurricane, heat searing through her, his firm grip anchoring her in the eye of the storm even as his tongue slid against hers.
He tasted of scotch, and smoke, and something so uniquely Clint that she wanted to run her tongue over his whole body to see if it all tasted like that.
His hands gripped her waist and lifted, and she instinctively jumped to wrap her legs around his waist, moaning when she found that he was already hard against her.
His mouth left hers and began to travel down her neck, nipping and sucking at her skin, and she let her head fall back as he carried her through into the bedroom.
She half-expected him to drop her on the mattress, but he surprised her, laying her down gently and pulling back to run his gaze over her.
"You are so beautiful," he murmured, sliding his hand up her leg to her thigh holster, disguised as a garter.
Slowly he withdrew the knife that was stashed there, and she shivered as the flat of the blade brushed against her skin.
"This was expensive," she said.
Clint raised an eyebrow. "And?"
"And you're not cutting it off," Natasha said.
Clint's breath caught and his eyes darkened even more, but he tossed the knife on to the nightstand. "Next time."
Someone whimpered - her, as it turned out, to her embarrassment - and he grinned, seemingly delighted.
"Next time," he repeated, his voice heavy with promise, before carefully slipping his hands under her to undo the clasp on her bra.
As he pulled it away from her body, it was his turn to make an odd noise, and her turn to smile up at him, tucking her hands under her head and arching her back. "Like what you see?"
"Fuck yeah," Clint groaned, fingers caressing her skin, causing her to shiver. "Sorry," he added, seeing her reaction. "Rough hands, I know."
Natasha raised an eyebrow. "And that's a problem?"
Clint grinned at her, that odd little-boy smile that always made something inside her flutter in ways she didn't quite understand. "I've had complaints."
Natasha laced her fingers with his and brought his hand to her breast. "Touch me."
Here, at least, he could follow orders, and he rubbed one thumb against her nipple before ducking his head to take the other in his mouth.
His hands were rough, covered in callouses from his years at the bow, and she found herself fascinated by the way each one felt against her skin.
She wondered if, given time, she could guess exactly what had caused them.
Sex had never been about pleasure for Natasha. She could take pleasure from it, had made herself learn how enjoy the thrill of power that came from a man on his back below her, but that was something she took, some desperate play in her younger years to feel more human, even when her handlers wanted the opposite.
No one had ever been interested in giving her pleasure before. Certainly, men seemed obsessed with her breasts, but that attention seemed to be self-serving - what, exactly, they got out of pawing at her chest, she didn't know, but it had distracted more than one mark from her actions, be they espionage or murder.
Clint, on the other hand, seemed intent on exploring every inch of her skin - and driving her mad at the same time. While he sucked and tugged on one, his fingertips caressed her other nipple, switching between gently, barely-there touches, to sharp pinches that had her moaning and arching up into his hands and mouth.
Finally, he lifted his head, his pupils blown with lust, but - to her surprise - rather than returning to her mouth, he began to kiss his way down her body.
"What are you doing?" She asked, her voice weaker than she intended.
Clint quirked an eyebrow. "Kissing you," he said, as though it was obvious. "Is this okay?"
Natasha faltered. "I … No one's ever …"
Clint pulled a face and crawled up the bed, bracing himself over her so they were eye-to-eye. "I don't have to if you don't want me to. You're in charge, yeah?"
That was safer ground.
But she wasn't sure that was what she wanted.
"You're overdressed," she said instead.
It wasn't entirely an avoidance either; lying spread out beneath him in nothing but a satin thong while he was mostly fully dressed was making her feel very exposed.
He smiled like he knew what she was thinking - and he almost certainly did - and climbed off the bed.
Natasha tucked a hand under her head again, watching as he peeled off that damned shirt to reveal a torso perfectly sculpted through years of training. Because of close contact missions and emergency first aid, she knew it almost as well as her own, but she had never been able to just look before.
"Like what you see?" He asked, echoing her earlier words.
Natasha tugged her lower lip between her teeth, allowing her gaze to travel over him, tracing every single muscle before she allowed it to return to his face, which had, rather gratifyingly, turned a little pink. "Very much," she purred. "Ditch the pants too."
Clint smirked, but did as he was told, and she sucked in a breath. She had seen him in his underwear before of course, but never when he was aroused like this, and his boxers were currently sporting a very impressive bulge.
"Tasha," he breathed, returning to her. Rather than bracing himself over her again, he settled to her side, leaning down to press a kiss to the scar on her shoulder. "It's me. You know you can trust me."
"I do," Natasha murmured, sliding her fingers into his hair and tugging him up to her mouth again.
He kissed her once, twice, then pulled back. "It makes you nervous."
"I don't want to … be in charge," she said slowly. "That's … That's what it's always like for me; I just don't …"
"I know," he murmured, gently stroking her cheek with the back of his fingers. "I want to make you come on my tongue, Tasha. May I?"
He punctuated his question with another kiss, not to her lips, but to the scar on her shoulder again.
It was the scar that he had given her, when they first met, the shot she thought had missed, but he swore was right on target.
"Why?" She asked bluntly.
"Because I enjoy it," Clint said, not surprised in the least by her question. "Plus I'm … I don't want to hurt you, Tasha."
That was three times now.
Apparently she had a new name, and she hoped he kept it just between them, because her mind was going to return to this every time he called her that, and if he made her do that in the middle of debriefing she was going to have to kill him.
"You're not going to hurt me," Natasha said, amused.
His hand skimmed over her stomach, making the muscles clench involuntarily beneath his touch. "Please?" He whispered.
She wanted it.
God, she wanted it.
And why shouldn't she have it?
"Okay."
His face lit up, and he began trailing kisses down her body again, until he reached the faint scar just above her underwear.
He alone knew what it was - she was fairly sure it wasn't even in her file - and he pressed a tender kiss to it, before tugging on her panties.
She lifted her hips, allowing him to draw them down her legs and toss them on the floor.
At his first glimpse, he let out a hungry groan, his fingers tracing circles on her inner thighs.
He caught her eye. "Tell me if you want me to stop."
And then his mouth was on her, his clever tongue swiping through her drenched folds before focusing on her clit with the same intensity he usually reserved for a target.
Natasha gasped out his name, startled by the sudden sensation, arching her hips up into his mouth, and he caught hold of them, cupping her ass with one hand to hold her closer.
Propping herself up on her elbows, she looked down her body to where his head was buried between her thighs, sucking and licking at her clit like it was producing some kind of nectar.
His tongue flicked in just the right place and she cried out, her hand shooting down to hold him in place.
"Oh, fuck, right there!"
She could feel him smirking as he rubbed his tongue against the spot he'd found, rubbing circles around her clit. His eyes cut to hers, his smirk clear in his eyes even though she couldn't see his mouth.
He lifted her legs over those broad shoulders and gave one long, hard suck, and she came with a cry of his name.
Clint lifted his head, his face shining with her juices. "That's my girl."
A little breathless, Natasha gave him a chiding look, but any protest she could come up with was immediately lost when he slid two fingers into her wet heat, drawing out a moan.
"That's it," Clint murmured. "Come for me again, Tasha; that's it."
His fingers were thick, and long enough to reach her G-spot, and he zeroed in on it like a target, rubbing it over and over again.
"Clint … I'm …"
"Come on," Clint said coaxingly. "God, you're gorgeous, Tasha. Can't believe I get to see you like this. So gorgeous when you come. Come for me again."
The heel of his hand collided with her clit with each thrust, and she rolled her hips, riding his hand like it was his cock.
He slid a third finger into her, and she screamed, muscles contracting around his fingers, wetness flooding his arm.
Clint groaned, continuing to work his fingers into her as she rode out her orgasm, coming all over his stomach and chest.
"Holy shit," she gasped out, collapsing back on the pillow.
Clint hummed in agreement, withdrawing his fingers and licking them clean.
The sight sent another shot of possessive heat through her. She readjusted herself, tightened her legs around his chest, and flipped him on to his back.
This elicited another pained moan from her partner, and she lowered her head to lick a stripe up his chest, her own juices not quite disguising the same heady taste she had learned from his mouth.
"That was incredible," she purred, sitting astride him. "I've never come that hard."
Clint smirked, arching his body to rub against where she was still sensitive. "More where that came from, sweetheart. I … Fuck …" he cut himself off with a groan, when she reached back and pressed a hand against the bulge in his boxers. "Wanna be inside you, Tasha."
"You were inside me," Natasha said, drawing his left hand up to her mouth, her tongue darting out to taste herself.
"You know what I mean," he growled. "Tasha …"
"Hold still," Natasha said. She brushed her lips against his, before slowly kissing her way down his chest, pressing her body against his as she moved.
When she reached his boxers, she got rid of them, barely noticing him kick them to the floor as she focused instead on his cock, curving towards his stomach, not overly long, but thick enough to make her mouth water.
Natasha had given her fair share of blowjobs, some willingly (though she was sure Clint would disagree with that assessment), others not so, but she had never wanted a man's cock in her mouth as badly as she did right now.
"Gonna ride me, baby?"
Natasha licked her lips. "Oh, I will. But first …"
At the first touch of her tongue, he almost came off the bed with a shout. She grasped his hips firmly and held him down, wrapping her lips securely around the head of his cock and taking him in.
"Tasha …! Tasha, you …"
Natasha smirked, humming around him, adjusting her angle to take him in deeper so her nose brushed against his pubic bone.
His fingers tangled in her hair with a pained groan. "Tasha, you gotta stop."
Slowly, Natasha drew her head back, allowing him to slip from her lips, letting him bump against her cheek. "You want me to stop?"
Clint let out a hoarse, weak laugh. "Course I don't want you to stop. But I'm not seventeen anymore; you keep going, and this is gonna be over way too soon."
Natasha chuckled, moving up to straddle his hips. "Next time then."
Clint rested his hands on her hips, sliding them up to cup her breasts. "We should make a list."
"What makes you think I don't already have one?" Natasha asked, rising up let his cock brush against her clit.
"Wait," Clint said suddenly, gripping her hips again. "Do we have a condom?"
Natasha hesitated. "My last med screen was clear."
"So was mine," Clint said.
"And I can't get pregnant," Natasha said with a shrug. "Do we need one?"
Clint closed his eyes, swallowing hard. "Are you sure?"
Natasha smiled, leaning down to kiss him. "I am."
Clint sat up, wrapping one arm behind her back and using the other hand to steady his cock so his broad head could slip inside her.
Immediately, she understood what he had meant when he said he didn't want to hurt her. He had made her come twice and his fingers had warmed her up and stretched her out.
Even so, he was thick enough that she needed to take things slowly, taking him in inch by inch with each roll of her hips.
"Fuck Tasha …" he pressed a kiss to the hollow of her throat. "God, you feel amazing."
Natasha pushed on his shoulders until he was lying down again, making it easier for her to ride him.
Bracing herself on his chest, she began to rock, tossing her head back with a moan as he filled her more completely than any man ever had.
Still, it was just a little too familiar, and she almost faltered, unsure of how to ask for what she wanted.
But as always, he could read her easily, and he gripped her hips, driving up into her and rolling them in one swift movement that sent another shot of heat through her.
"This okay?" He murmured, bracing himself over her again.
Natasha rarely allowed this position, hadn't since she had no choice during training at the Red Room, and she paused for a second to make sure.
Clint began to lift away from her at her hesitation, and she wrapped her legs around his hips, making him stay put.
"This is okay," she whispered.
Clint raised an eyebrow, rolling his hips to gently thrust into her. "Sure?"
Natasha nodded. "You … I'm safe with you."
His eyes softened and he leaned down to kiss her. She remembered that night at his apartment, when she had lain awake wondering what it would be like, to be with someone who cared.
Something in her chest tugged painfully and she squirmed beneath him, groaning into his mouth.
Clint pulled away with a smirk. "What was that, sweetheart?"
Natasha gave him a stern look at the endearment (at least she tried; she wasn't sure how effective it was). "Harder."
"Yes ma'am." Clint dropped another kiss on her lips and shifted his position. "Better hold on."
Natasha rolled her eyes for show, but reached up and grasped hold of the headboard, bracing her feet on the mattress to give him room to move.
He did not disappoint.
She cried out, arching up into him as he finally let go and did what she knew he had wanted to do for months, maybe years, maybe even since the moment he laid eyes on her (even though she knew he would never, ever have admitted it then), fucking her hard and fast.
She would be feeling this for days, she knew, and that should bother her but God the idea of him leaving his mark on her was suddenly hot as hell.
This time, her climax crept up on her and washed over her like a tsunami. Her hands left the headboard and gripped his shoulders, her nails digging into his skin.
He cursed into her neck. "Tasha … can I …?"
She knew what he was asking, something she would never, ever allow anyone to do.
"Yes," she gasped out, arching up under him.
Clint came with a cry of her name, stiffening above her. The sudden rush of heat as he spilled himself inside her triggered one final climax. It was much smaller than the others, but somehow far more intimate.
His weight settled on her, and he pressed a kiss to her throat. "I promise I'll move in a second."
Natasha smiled fondly, stroking a hand down his back. "You're okay."
"You don't like being pinned," he murmured.
"I don't feel pinned," she said softly. "It's you."
He smiled, but shifted so his cock slipped out of her and he could lie beside her. "Okay?"
Natasha rolled over to face him. "We are very good at that."
Clint grinned. "We are. We're doing that again, right?"
"Well, we do have a list," Natasha said. "But … this is just sex."
"It's not just sex," Clint said.
Natasha's heart sank. He could not be allowed to fall in love with her. She knew Clint too well for that; once his heart was in something, it was in for good.
It wasn't fair to let him do that when she was incapable of loving him back.
"Clint …"
"It's really good sex," he continued.
Natasha rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean."
Clint's smile softened. "I do. Look, Nat, I get what you're saying. But we're partners and you're my best friend. You and I are never going to be 'just sex' in the way that, say, some girl I met in a bar would be."
"Fair enough," Natasha conceded.
"Nat, we can be best friends and partners who have sex," Clint said, stretching out beside her. "In the interests of full disclosure, I'm not great at casual. If I'm sleeping with you, I'm not going to be sleeping with anyone else. That's just my … I dunno, my moral code, I guess. Even with 'just sex', I'm monogamous."
"Work is work," Natasha said cautiously.
"Well, that's different," Clint said. There was a hard note in his voice, but his eyes didn't change. "I don't count that."
Natasha shrugged. "I can live with that. Just …"
"It's just sex, Nat," Clint said gently. "It's not rocket science. I think we can manage."
"The moment it starts being a problem …" Natasha began.
"Then we stop," Clint finished. "It'll be a tragedy, but you're my best friend. That comes first."
Natasha nodded. "Good. We're on the same page."
Clint woke early the next morning. For a second, he was disorientated; he never slept naked, even when not on an op, but then Natasha shifted beside him, and the previous night came flying back.
They had fallen asleep on separate sides of the bed - unsurprisingly, she preferred her space - but he appeared to have moved closer during the night, and was almost, but not quite, wrapped around her.
Slowly - half so he didn't wake her, half so he didn't get shot - he pulled himself away and got out of bed, wandering to the bathroom.
It was unusual for him to wake before Natasha.
In fact, he couldn't think of a single time that had happened before now.
Just sex.
He could do that.
Neither of them had the time for a proper relationship - and what was dating anyway, if not a best friend you had sex with?
He and Bobbi had moved way too fast, and he had lost her as a result.
Then again, if he and Bobbi were still married, last night would never have happened. As beautiful and sexy and alluring as Natasha was, he would never had been unfaithful to Bobbi, even with Natasha.
No, he could move at Natasha's pace with this.
All he had to do was not fall in love with her.
Returning to the bedroom, he was surprised to find that Natasha was still fast asleep. He had expected his movements - as quiet as they were - to wake her.
Carefully, he slipped back into bed, and this time, she stirred.
She still didn't wake though, but rolled over into face him, her head coming to rest on his chest.
She wasn't faking sleep.
She was completely and utterly fast asleep, all traces of worry and hesitance smoothed out, her expression unguarded and peaceful.
His heart clenched painfully in his chest, and he automatically dropped a kiss on her hairline.
Apparently all he had to do was not let Natasha know that he had already fallen in love with her.
That was fine.
He could do that.
He closed his eyes, determined to get a few more hours sleep before they had to prep for extraction.
Natasha let out a little sigh and nuzzled into his neck.
He was so screwed.